


A Horrible Decision, Really

by BadDecisionsAndGoodWriting



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Comedy, Daedra (Elder Scrolls), Daedric Princes (Elder Scrolls), Daedric Quests (Elder Scrolls), Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Female Reader, Madness, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader-Insert, Video Game Mechanics, Xivkyn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25251085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadDecisionsAndGoodWriting/pseuds/BadDecisionsAndGoodWriting
Summary: You know, you’ve made quite a few decisions in your life: You decided to cross the border of Skyrim during a Stormcloak raid, you made the conscious decision to climb the Seven Thousand Steps, and you didn’t run out of Skyrim the first time you saw a giant angsty lizard. You’ve made a lot of choices already in your short time in the frozen tundras of Skyrim. All with a plethora of horrible consequences and poorly thought out reasons behind them. But, in a technical sense, the stupidest one you’ve made so far was not calling a priest the second Daedra started to get involved.
Relationships: Argis the Bulwark/Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Argis the Bulwark/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Argis the Bulwark/Reader, Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Molag Bal, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Molag Bal, Molag Bal/Reader, Molag Bal/You
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24





	1. Sixteen Accords of Madness, Book XVII

**Author's Note:**

> I’d just like to get some disclaimers out of the way right here and now, for prosperity:
> 
> I do not support Molag Bal or anything he does.  
> 
> 
> Rape, sexual assault, slavery, all that shit is bad, unquestionably  
> 
> 
> This is entirely for fun and enjoyment, and if the concept of this story or the tags make you uncomfortable or aren’t your idea of a good time, it’d probably be best for you to read something else; I know from experience that going ahead and reading or engaging with something I know that I’m not going to like just because there’s a chance I could or because I’m bored doesn’t end well. I didn’t start writing this with the hope to make someone uncomfortable, so please don’t torture yourself.  
> 
> 
> Usually, I strive to make my reader insert stories as gender neutral as possible, but for this one there’s a moment/arc later that would really benefit from the reader being AFAB, so I decided to go with that. I’ll still try to make the gender of the reader as non important or as neutral as possible, but I thought it warranted an explanation.  
> 
> 
> Some of the characterization and appearances are probably going to be influenced by Skitamine. Some of their content inspired this story, so… you know. Just felt like giving credit where credit is due.  
> 
> 
> For updates on stories, sneak peaks, and occasionally fanart please check me out at [TheHeraldOfTheDark](https://theheraldofthedark.tumblr.com/).  
> 
> 
> As always, feedback and critique is especially important to me, so if you have any please let me know so I can continue to improve.  
> 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the story.

At the peak of Sheogorath’s palace, centered perfectly between Mania and Dementia, a large room overlooked the realm. Stone walls and floors held amenities both familiar to kings and inconceivable for any mortal alike. Items with value only for their owner and items long since forgotten lined the shelves and tables with neither rhyme nor reason. In the room's center laid a great peephole to times and places known and not yet known, images from times forgotten and to be discovered flickering across its surface. Just off-centered in the room on a split couch, the mad prince gazed into the visions with naught but a lying smile. 

The prince found himself in a rare spot, one which he hadn’t felt since times long since irrelevant. At times, he found his mind enveloped in the enticing curls of mania. Where he would dance and sing and slaughter with joy in his heart and blood in his hair. Other times he was sucked deep into dementia, into sorrow and agony like no god should be able to feel. There, he would weep until his lands were flooded or shriek out in rage and fear so viciously the sun would not rise until he was through. Yet he found himself in neither. The sun didn’t shine and the rain didn’t pour, clouds merely hung in the sky like tapestries from the halls of the rich.

To put it simply, he was bored.

“Haskill!” He waved his hand, and his loyal chamberlain appeared in an instant, “I’m terribly bored, can’t you do something?”

“Truly, your grace?” Haskill spoke with practiced elegance and a distinct lack of surprise, “I had thought that your vacation had gone well.”

Sheo reclined over the arm of his couch, huffing, “It did, ya don’t need ta remind me! It’s just…” He ran a hand through his beard, looking up to the ceiling, “You’d have figured that after I’d been away, there’d be a little more going on than some petty little power struggle.” He lifted his head to look at Haskill, sticking out his hands with an unmistakable sense of exasperation, “and you had it under control before I even got back!”

Haskill bowed, “Pardon me, I did not wish for the realm to fall into chaos you didn’t supervise. I will make sure to stay out of it next time.”

Sheogorath groaned, slamming his body onto the couch, “No, no, that’s not what I meant!”

“Then what seems to be troubling you?” Haskill put his hand over his heart as he thought, “Would it please you to have a new festival? Perhaps a ritual sacrifice? A day of killing for all?” He nodded towards Sheogorath respectfully, “But of course, I would never presume what you would want.”

The prince sprang up, though he didn’t leave the couch, a look of frustration painting his face, “I just need ya ta  _ listen _ !”

Haskill smiled in his subdued way, “When you’re ready, sir.”

Sheo let out a few motorboats as he sagged back down, “Everything’s so… boring! In the mortal realm!” With a wave of his hand, the scene embedded in the floor changed to Nirn, to Morrowind, to Black Marsh, to Cyrodiil, to Skyrim, and a good many other places Haskill only vaguely recognized, “Just look how peaceful they all are! Not a drop of madness to be found!”

Haskill squinted into the foggy scenes, “My lord, do not think me a disenter, but it does seem as if madness still colors their actions.” He stepped a bit closer, pointing at things as they flashed by, “Cyrodiil is gripped with power struggles, Morrowind is yet being covered in ash, and Skyrim is rife with civil war. And, if I am correct, there is a bit of a dragon problem there, is there not?”

The Mad God let out a whine as he wiggled on the couch, “but none of it involves us!” He kicked one of the throw pillows off, “We’ve all had our thumbs up our asses for the last two centuries! We’ve barely meddled in the mortal realm at all!”

“Come now, sire, there’s no need to get upset.” Haskill soothed as he picked up the rejected pillow, “We can start on bringing new souls to the Shivering Isles right away if you so wish. There’s always room to poison the minds of the nobility.” He placed the pillow back where it belonged, and Sheogorath had the momentary kindness not to immediately kick it back off, “We could make a new Pelagius Septim III. Perhaps in the Summerset Isles? I believe they’re ripe for the picking.” The daedra groaned as loudly as he could, as if somehow that would alleviate his seemingly endless boredom. He fidgeted harshly, rocking the loveseat back and forth for a time, his movements getting more and more frantic until his whole body went stiff as if he had suddenly been hit by a bolt of lightning before relaxing solemnly across the couch.

“You’ll be the death of me one o’ these days, Haskil!” He lamented, hanging a hand over his face, “You’re missing the whole point! I’m not talking about you ‘n’ me, I’m talking about them!” With a wave of his hand, the images across his strange peephole changed once again. This time, fiery towers, brilliant light, and all other kinds of unfamiliar imagery graced the portal. “Just look at ‘em down there!” Sheo gestured to the shifting scenes within his fellow princes’ realms, “they’re not doing anythin! It’s like… as soon as Mehrunes was done having his little fit we all just… called it quits!” He quickly flipped himself around, so now he was resting his head in his hands, looking up at his companion, “Why, when’s the last time you’ve heard talk of a Sanguine party? Or heard about a marvelous crusade from one of Meridia’s? Or… or…” He let out a sound in between a groan of something resembling shame and a shriek so loud it could crack a window, “When’s the last time  **I** did anythin?!”

Before Haskil could begin recalling his usual plan for one of his master’s fits, he was already turning on the (soon-to-not-be) immaculate room. He watched with dead-pan amusement as the god began to tear up his quarters. The couch was first, unsurprisingly, twisting and morphing into several recognizably unrecognizable shapes before it simply fell to pieces. Then the shelves were morphed into bats then rats then mats that still squealed and made stomach-churning attempts at moving around. Sheo turned his attention to the guard at his door, ripping out his intestines before the man could even rejoice at being chosen for his Lord’s slaughter.

Haskil merely shook his head in muted fondness before allowing his gaze to shift back to the great portal. (It wasn’t that he was uninterested in his master’s escapades, he simply respected that disemboweling time is alone time. Besides, wouldn’t it be better to be surprised by whatever madness he would see when he turned his head again?) As much as he’d love to not have to replace his prince’s room again, he knew better than anyone that one needed to let their lord have their murder time. As the sounds of tearing flesh and strangled gasps for air continued, Haskil began to realize that the face that the portal had shifted to was almost… familiar. Like a face he had only ever heard described in a book, or from a passing glance. Who was that?

“Oh, look at that,” Haskil muttered to himself. He raised his voice a peg to catch the attention of the man currently fashioning some new bizarre instrument from the entrails of the no-longer recognizable guard, “Your champion is on, and she seems to be in a bit of a fight.”

“My champion?” Sheogorath snapped his neck to look at Haskil, excitement slowly shining through the viscera, “my champion! Oh, ho ho, yes!” He began to make his way back to the viewport, dripping with blood, “My champion! My—“ He suddenly stopped mid stride, one hand placed on his chin and his brows furrowed. “My… champion?”

“The Dragonborn, sir.”

“MY CHAMPION!” He rushed over to the portal, tossing the meaty half-instrument onto the tarnished floor. 

The couch remade itself so that the Mad God and his assistant could gaze into the Dragonborn’s life. You had a magic spell crackling dangerously in one hand and an enchanted blade in the other. Bandits rushed at you, aiming to cut away your armor, but finding their own bodies being torn asunder instead. Magic and blade cut deep into leather and flesh, painting the dull ground a vibrant red. It took almost no time for the last one to fall, leaving you standing over the wreckage victoriously. It would have been a sight to give a light but earnest golf clap to, if the camera hadn’t been so shaky that it would have caused any non-immortal to get motion sickness. The viewing port would shift to the bloodshed for a few moments, before darting back to get the Dragonborn in its sights, then back to the carnage, and rinse and repeat.

The prince groaned and got up to kick the portal, “Stop moving, I’m tryin ta watch somethin!”

“Why is it doing that?” Haskil asked, confusion blossoming in his chest, “Do we need to recast it?”

“No! It’s just being naughty.” He got up and began to beat his hand against the sort-of material portal, “Naughty! Naughty! Just show me my champion, or I’ll pluck out yer eyes!”

Haskil sighed as his lord continued to try and assault the magical projection. For every hit the prince gave the innocent little portal, the image flickered. Your visage, now riding on horseback to parts unknown, distorted in ways that would be grotesque if it wasn’t obviously just interference. Yet, with each ripple and tear, something changed. At first, it appeared as if the image was getting smaller, or that the colorful edges of the hole were absorbing more of the screen. But as Sheogorath’s fight with the screen continued, it became apparent that that was not the case. Something began to appear around the picture of you, something dark, something stoney, something very different than the foggy greens of Skyrim. 

“Master?” Haskil said, unusually uncertain for a man who lived in a realm of madness, “something is happening.”

“Aye!” Sheo growled, “I’m getting pissed!” With one mighty, misplaced kick, Sheogorath managed to spill himself through and in front of the bizarre vision. As the god rolled over onto his back, the image slowly finished rippling like a disturbed pond, revealing a scene the prince could identify. “Oh, hey!” he sort of relaxed into the floor, pointing at the new scene they were privy to, “it’s old blue balls!”

Old blue— _ Molag Bal _ sat stiff as a board on a weathered, jagged, black stone throne with fiery blue spikes jutting out in a sickening imitation of royalty. The glowing blues and heavy blacks of his realm would have dominated the scene if it wasn’t for the glowing porthole shining in front of the accursed prince, casting him in a far less intimidating light. Nearly eclipsed by the edges of the screen, a few random Xivkyn guards stood at attention, guarding the prince’s throne room. Even through the magic allowing them to see into Molag’s realm, Sheogorath could easily smell the unease and fear of the seemingly stoic daedra. That wasn’t even mentioning Molag Bal himself. If either had ever seen such a scene, they would have likened it to a disgruntled dad watching his favorite sports team whilst being horrifically constipated.

“Look at ‘im!” Sheo laughed, “He’s madder than a hive of hornets in a bikini competition!”

“Is he… watching the Dragonborn?” Haskil said, trying to ignore the mental image his master just conjured up, “Why on Nirn would he be doing that?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Sheo said, flipping around on his stomach to assume the best possible gossiping position, “The Dragonborn is Blue Ball’s champion too! After I got to them, obviously, but still!” He giggled, the sound sharp and eerie, “it seems like she’s a bit of a two-timer, huh?” Before Haskil could even begin to deal with the implications of that sentence, the mad god continued, “I knew, I just knew I detected some madness in high places, but I wouldn’t’ve— _ couldn’t’ve _ guessed it was from one of  _ us _ !” He laughed in pure delight and clapped his hands together, pleased as a barbarian in a crypt full of skeletons.

Haskil felt a bead of sweat drip down his temple, “Madness, my Lord? Molag Bal is filled with Madness? I don’t believe I’ve heard of such a thing. Another prince falling to madness…” He wiped at his brow, the mere thought of a prince as dangerous as Molag Bal losing his mind was enough to make even him pause.

Sheogorath began to cackle. He cackled and cackled, curling himself tighter into a ball. Vaguely, from outside the window, Haskil heard a slowly building humming that he couldn’t quite identify. As his lord continued to laugh himself into a tizzy on the floor, he crept up to the window to get an idea of what was going on. He could feel a peal of laughter bubbling up unwillingly from his suddenly heavy stomach as he gazed out on the mad of the realm seemingly paralyzed with laughter and joy. The people of Mania were beating the ground and squealing with unbridled happiness; wares abandoned and weapons scattered on the ground. Even the citizens of Dementia, usually prone to cry or scream in agony, were barely able to stay up from the mad bursts of laughter suddenly assaulting their fragile minds. He too felt a chuckle trying to escape his chest as the cacophony of merriment and madness became a deafening drone. 

As his knees began to give out, Sheogorath’s hand squeezed Haskil’s shoulder, the god’s voice light with elation, “You should get your pen ready, Haskil! We’re on the cusp of a new accord of madness!”


	2. Fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You may be suffering under the burden of needing to save the world from an apocalyptic threat unlike anything that the world has faced before, but at least you can look forward to coming home to the guy of your dreams, a lovely house, and some peace and quiet. Only you aren't actually seeing that guy, your house was the scene of several gruesome murders, and there's a malevolent entity stalking the place. But you know, other than that, livin' the dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh, um. I apologize for the long wait. I've been really, really busy in ever conceivable way. I didn't find writing so fun for a while, but I'm starting to enjoy it again. I had to restart this chapter 3 times. Writing is hard. I won't make a promise about when the next installment will be out, but I hope you find this entertaining!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr here: [TheHeraldOfTheDark](https://theheraldofthedark.tumblr.com/). Ask me things if you'd like, or just look at my stuff, I'm good with either.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

A sort of heaviness dropped from your shoulders as the large gate closed behind you, Despite your armor, potions, and weapons still weighing you down. Stone streets, grey walls, copper doors—sometimes Markarth only registered in your mind as a city rather than a Dwemer ruin because you could see the sun in the sky above. It didn’t help that most of the people felt like Dwemer automatons—distant, busy with their own shit, and always acting like you were invading their space. If you closed your eyes and focused, you could almost hear the faint sounds of actual Dwemer ruins from underneath the city, ready to drag you back into the horrifying world of Falmer and deadly machines if you stepped in the wrong place.

You feel like you were supposed to say something positive about Markarth just now.

Ignoring the sensation, you managed to slip inside your house without incident. “Ugghhhh huh huh huh huhhhh!” You groaned, sliding down against the heavy door as it shut, “Just end my misery already.”

“What were you thinking?,” a rugged voice teased, “An axe, a sword, or a mace?”

You jumped, half expecting a fight, before you caught sight of a familiar head of long, blonde hair, “All three at once would be preferable.”

Argis laughed, coming fully into sight, “I’ll have to check your stash.” He set a broom on the wall, patted his hands on his pants, and headed towards the kitchen. “What were you out doing, hunting dragons? Fetching ingredients? What has the great Dragonborn been up to?” He began searching through the food supply, “I imagine you want your usual?”

You scoffed playfully, beginning the process of relieving yourself of your armor, “I wish. Nah, I was doing a quest for somebody, had to deliver some stuff. Though I did run into some bandits on the way back.” With the easiest pieces to take off in hand, you shuffled them into the nearest chest. “I tell you, I’m starting to wonder if I should get into the bandit business; seems like no matter how many I strike down, more just keep coming! They gotta be raking in some serious moolah if there are that many of them.” Cracking your back, you let out a truly relieved sigh. “Oh, and I’d love my usual.”

The Nord smiled at you before he turned back to start on your dinner. As you stretched your weary muscles, which is something you truly _need_ to do after wearing armor for so long, you watched him work. You hadn’t known Argis for very long—you hadn’t lived in Skyrim for very long, but you’d known him for far less. You had only decided to settle in Markarth, for the time being, just over a month ago. During that time, he dutifully attended to your house and to you—making meals for the two of you and joining you in the occasional adventure. He had shown himself to be a dependable, if not sporadically tempramental, companion. His kindness and companionship always struck a cord of regret in you that you ever made him visit _this_ house.

The haunted one.

Where you just so happened to live.

…Ok, listen.

It all started with that stupid Vilglient of Stendarr, and his stupid idea to explore the house. You hated almost every moment of the ensuing quest—you hated killing an innocent, you hated being trapped in a stupid little spike cage, and by god you hated torturing a man for a prince you loathed. You hadn’t actually planned to live in Markarth before this. You weren’t exactly feeling too settled in anywhere, but Markarth wasn’t exactly among your top choices. But with the memory of what Molag made that poor priest go through stained in your psyche, and the suggestion to tend to the house, you inquired about purchasing the house for yourself with your hands still shaking. You still weren’t convinced that the good Jarl had actually planned to give you the house, but you’re assuming that the look of distant horror and the fresh bloodstains made him willing to part with the property. Not like anyone was desperate to buy it.

“You know,” you piped up, leaning on the stone table, “you don’t have to be here. As often as you are,” you clarify, “I understand that you’re my housecarl and that I’m your thane, but you can spend the time when I’m not here in your own house, or even when I am! This house… it shouldn’t have to be your responsibility too.”

“My thane,” he scolded softly, “Jarl Igmund didn’t hire me to sit around some fancy house; he pays me to sit around _your_ fancy house.” A laugh popped out of your mouth, either from the joke or the fact that he called your house “fancy”. He laughed along as he set your portion of dinner in front of you, “but really, y/n, when I tell you that I’m ‘sworn to carry your burdens’, I’m not just talking about your hoarding problem.”

“You’re going to make me choke on this,” you warned.

He sat down, clearing the chuckle from his throat, “But really, I’m talking about _all_ your burdens: your responsibilities, your struggles, your woes.” He tenderly leaned in, and you couldn’t help but do the same, “I’m here for you, my thane, through Oblivion and back.”

You caught yourself staring into his face for a long, serene moment while you tried not to make a very unheroic sound from his speech. You’ve met a lot of Nords—and you mean a LOT of Nords—during your time in Skyrim, but none of them were quite like Argis; none were as sweet with you as he was, and none got even close to his rugged, heroic form. Sometimes, when you were close to him, you were almost overwhelmed with how badly you wanted to run your fingers through his long, blonde hair. His one blind eye always intrigued you: you liked to fantasize about what kind of brave, heroic quest he was on when he got it. The tattoo going down his cheek and onto his neck never failed to catch your eye, but to be honest, none of him did. You felt yourself moving closer and closer to him as he followed suit, your face rapidly getting warmer.

A loud crash echoed from the other room, as if several things fell over simultaneously. Before you could even think of an explanation, you were already on your feet with your weapon drawn. That warm, flustered feeling evaporated from your skin as the piercing sting of fear ricocheted down your body. There was no time for armor, and you probably shouldn’t have a spell in your hand—you weren’t in the mood to buy new furniture. Your eyes were trained on the door before you even registered where it was coming from, and you realized as you started to imagine what could be on the other side that whatever it was was in your bedroom. 

“Is that your sword?” Argis whispered, right besides you, “I thought you put everything away when you came in?”

“Don’t ask questions you aren’t prepared to hear the answer to,” you hissed, advancing upon the door.

You were at the door. He was at the door. You were both at the door. You weren’t even sure what you were expecting; a thief? A murderer? Some kind of bratty-ass child that thought that walking into someone’s home without warning was appropriate? Whatever it was, you would show it no mercy. With a shaky hand, you nudged open the door. With the briefest sight of something that you couldn’t identify, you burst through the door and ran screaming into your bedroom, Argis following behind. Your battle cries seemed pretty silly when you realized that the only thing there was an unusually high line of books, stacked edge to edge. A few seconds after you understood what you were looking at, the door hit the wall, making the impressively high pile fall to the ground.

“Are you fUCKING KIDDING ME?!” you shouted, slamming your sword on the floor. 

“My thane,” Argis tried, but you were too mad to care.

“THIS IS THE THIRD TIME THIS WEEK SOMETHING LIKE THIS HAPPENED!” You grabbed his shoulders, “AND IT’S ONLY MONDAS!”

“I can start cleaning it up—,” Argis tried again.

“NO!” You boomed. You quickly clear your throat, “No, you go eat and I’ll clean this up, you’ve been working all day, and you need your rest. Just leave it to me, ok?”

He sighed, “Of course, my thane, but don’t be too long.”

You waved him off as you began to pick up the books, “I’ll be done before you know it, enjoy dinner.”

He was apprehensive, but the call of food was apparently too much to bear, as you soon found yourself alone in your bedroom. You shuddered as an ice-cold draft slinked through your clothes and hair, trying to chill you to the bone. You didn’t turn around, though; you refused to acknowledge it beyond your body’s natural response. Instead, you kept yourself steady as you pushed a pile of books towards your shelf. Your movements were smooth, controlled, the chill being unable to freeze your boiling blood. You knew what this was, and you knew why it happened; he won’t get the satisfaction of your fear, not anymore.

You stood up, dusted yourself off, and admired your handy work. Everything was back in place, back where it should be. Adjusting one last book, you started for the door, eager to enjoy a home cooked meal after such a long day. Before your hand could touch the door, though, you had a sudden thought. With a fiendish grin, you quickly turned back towards the shelf to do a little... _creative sorting_. While you didn’t find yourself with much time to read nowadays, you did still keep a healthy collection of the things, enough for this, anyways. Finally completely satisfied, you nodded gleefully at the bookshelf and exited your room. In the middle row was a collection of 12 books, held up by some random knick-knack. They were about a variety of different topics, no real thread connecting them to the uninformed. The trained eye, however, would notice the first letter embellished on each books’ spine spelled out a simple phrase:

“Fuck Molag Bal”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys have any feedback, I am more than happy to hear it.


End file.
